


Helpin’ Hand

by cortexikid



Category: IT (2019), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Fix It, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, He needs something else, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Namely extreme horniness, Post-Chapter Two, Richie offers to be that something else, Romance/Humor, Who knew being magically resurrected would have such consequences?, but jerkin’ the gherkin isn’t working for Eddie anymore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid/pseuds/cortexikid
Summary: “How was I supposed to know that coming back from the dead would have such fucked up side effects? It’s not like there’s a fucking manual somewhere that says, ‘Oh, by the way, with great resurrection, comes great horniness'.”Eddie sighed.“So, a hookup app seems the best option for me," he shrugged, raking a hand down his face, “I just...I need someone to take the edge off. Handjob, blowjob, anything, I don’t care. As long as it’s something other than my right hand, I’m golden.”Richie looked up."I could help you out.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 107
Kudos: 316





	1. With Great Resurrection...

**Author's Note:**

> So this came out of nowhere? Lol. I incorporate some small details from my other (unconnected) Reddie fics. Would love to know if people spot them ;) enjoy horny!Eddie and pining!Richie

“Rich! Richie! Open the fucking door!”

Richie Tozier let out a groan from the couch in his living room, his long body sprawled across it, his face pressed into the cushions. 

“Trashmouth! I’m serious, dude. Let me in, I know you’re there! Do you want me to go get Mrs Hernandez’s spare key? ‘Cause I’ll do it, I swea—”

Richie wrenched open his door with a bang, barely registering that he had even left the couch. 

_Fuck. I’m drunker than I thought._

“Jesus Eds, it’s 2am, shut the fuck up,” he grumbled as his friend pushed passed him into the apartment. 

“There’s no one on this floor, asshole, I’m not bothering anyone.”

“Me. You’re bothering _me_ , Kaspbrak.” 

The two regarded one another, Richie still by the open door and Eddie standing in the middle of his living room, looking a mix of lost and weirdly determined.

Richie definitely did not find it adorable. 

“Sorry,” Eddie murmured, not sounding in the least bit sorry. 

He folded his arms across his chest, hunching his shoulders in a way that told Richie that he was more than a little pissed off, “Why did you leave early? Not like you to skip out on a party.” 

It had been the second of their biannual Losers Club soirées, held in L.A. this time, to accommodate Richie who had a number of shows coming up on his new, sold-out tour, _Clownin’ Around_. Despite having a blast catching up with his lifelong friends, with drinks and anecdotes aplenty, Richie had excused himself shortly after dessert, to the noticeable shock of everyone else present.

The comedian shrugged, closing his front door with a snap, before shuffling over towards his kitchen, and in turn, the fridge. 

He needed another beer, or seven, for this conversation. 

“I’ve got rehearsal early in the morning, Eds. Can’t be a party boy all my life.” 

“Bullshit.”

Richie sighed into the fridge, closing his eyes briefly, to collect himself, before snatching up two beers and shutting the door. Silently, he took several steps towards Eddie, holding out the glass bottle to him. 

Eddie eyed it suspiciously. 

“I thought you hated Craft beer.” 

“I do.” 

Eddie’s gaze narrowed, no doubt noticing the label. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s the Irish shit you love so much. Stephen had it imported.” 

Richie could feel a familiar heat climb up the back of his neck at that admission. He shoved the beer into his friend's hand and forced his feet towards the couch, sitting down heavily and plucking up the bottle opener from off the coffee table. 

“You had your tour manager import beer that you once called ‘snooty hipster piss’ for me?” 

Richie snorted, letting his head fall back against the couch with a heavy thump. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Eds Spageds. Bill likes it too.” 

That seemed to jumpstart Eddie from where he had been rooted to the floor, he sinking into the armchair to Richie’s left with a roll of his eyes. 

“Sure. For the three whole times Bill has ever been in this apartment. It’s not like I live downstairs or anything.” 

He punctuated his point by popping off the bottle cap with the opener, watching as it shot across the room. 

Richie blinked slowly.

“You were weirdly quiet after Stan and I talked about...you know,” Eddie spoke down to his beer, thumb beginning to peel at the label, “I—I know it can be hard for you to hear...what happened to us, after.”

Richie took a large gulp from the bottle, resolutely staring anywhere but at his childhood friend, trying to douse the bile rising in his stomach with alcohol.

“You and Stan should be allowed to talk about it, Eds. It...it was fucked up, all of it. But, it brought you back. Both of you. And that’s the main thing.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Eddie's head bob. 

“It’s...it’s good to have someone who...gets it, you know? Don’t—don’t get me wrong, Rich, you’ve...you’ve been amazing this last year. Helping me recover, supporting me through my divorce, getting me the apartment, all of it. But Stan...he came back too. He...he remembers dying, and waking up. Just like me. And I guess I can get a bit...overzealous when he’s around.” 

Richie snorted out a laugh, tone dripping with sarcasm as he finally forced himself to look at him.

“No. Overzealous? _You?_ Never.”

“Fuck you, dude.”

“Fuck youuuuuuuu.”

The friends shared a laugh before Richie sombered. 

“But seriously, Eddie. I didn’t leave because I couldn’t stand hearing you and Stan talk about dying and undying. Promise.” 

And it was the truth. He hadn’t left because of that. Would never begrudge his friends discussing their trauma together, even if it did cause bad memories to rise to the surface of the deepest, darkest depths of his brain. 

“I believe you.” 

And he did. Richie could tell. 

“But come on, man. We get to see all the Losers together in one place like twice a year. Why did you skip out early?” Eddie leaned forward on his elbows, tilting his head, something indecipherable glinting in his gaze, “You have a hot date or something?”

Richie’s stomach lurched painfully. 

“Ha. Funny, Eds,” he scoffed, mirroring his stance, “But you know I’m a one-woman-man. And Mrs K is just irreplace—”

Eddie’s groan of frustration drowned out the rest of his sentence. 

“How the fuck do you have a sold-out standup when you’ve been telling the same ol’ ‘your mom’ jokes for thirty fucking years?!” 

A smirk spread across Richie’s face. 

“Because I keep those just especially for you, Eds. _My first fan_.” 

Eddie grimaced at that. 

“First fan, my ass. You drove me fuckin’ crazy. Still do.” 

“Thou doth protest too much, methinks, Edward,” Richie winked with his best Shakespeare impression. 

(And by best, he really meant worst. Because the look that crossed Eddie’s face at Richie’s grating voices was like crack to him.)

Eddie merely rolled his eyes at that, knee beginning to bounce up and down in that jittery way of his, as if he was a wind-up toy that had been wound just that tad too tight and now had to burn off its energy by bounding around the room. 

He reminded Richie of that chimp with the cymbals, sometimes. Not that he’d ever tell him that. He valued his life. 

As if somehow reading his thoughts and opting to give a demonstration, Eddie suddenly leapt up from out of the armchair, beer tilting precariously before he righted himself and began to babble, eyes darting around the room. 

“You uh...you missed out on one hell of a conversation, though, I’ll tell ya that. Stan was telling me about all the weird side effects he experienced after he first woke up.”

A beat passed between them. 

Richie’s eyebrows rose. 

“Side effects?”

Admittedly, he and Stan didn’t speak much about any of...that, really. It was too painful for Stan to tell and too heartbreaking for Richie to hear. So, they kept their conversations purely nostalgic, lighthearted and teasing, most of the time. Or as much as Stan would let Richie away with, anyway. Though Patty did enjoy watching Stan make Richie blush with his summer camp story that entailed a nine year old Richie with a loose regard for the cannonballing rule and unfortunately for him, even looser swimming trucks.

“Yeah, so like, for three straight weeks after, he had like this...insatiable appetite. Apparently he gorged himself on everything and anything he could find in the house. Cooked, raw, frozen, didn’t matter. It was some real Dawn of the Dead type shit.” 

Richie’s eyebrows continued to climb up his forehead. 

Eddie was steadily becoming more and more agitated, beginning to pace back and forth with such vigor that Richie, for once in his life, found himself worried for his hardwood floor. 

“Which got me talking about my side effects. Which, was only one big one, really. And...fuck, I would have given _anything_ for it to have been just hunger. ‘Cause, Jesus, how was I supposed to know that coming back from the dead would have such fucked up caveats? It’s not like there’s a fucking manual somewhere that says, ‘Oh, by the way, with great resurrection, comes _great_ _horniness.”_

Richie’s mouth dropped open. 

_Talk about hard wood. Fuck._

He swallowed once, twice, trying to summon sound into his throat. 

“Uh,” he rasped, “when you say—”

“Oh yeah, Rich,” Eddie cut him off with a karate chop through the air, “I’m talkin’ back when you’re thirteen and just can’t fuckin’ stop touching yourself. The come-in-your-pants-at-a-light-breeze, kinda horny. Like, I legit think my dick is gonna fall off if I don’t do something, dude.” 

_Or someone._

Richie felt the blood drain from his face and make its way south.

“That’s...that’s why you wanted to make a dating profile.”

See, that had been when Richie decided it was his cue to leave the restaurant and get the hell outta dodge as fast as his tipsy, gangly legs could carry him. There was just no way he could summon the strength to sit through fuck knew how long of Eddie swiping right on assholes on Fuckr, Soda Meets Popcorn, Plenty of Fucks, or whatever-the-shit dating app, asking the Losers their opinions, looking for advice on getting back out there as a newly-divorced, recently-out-and-proud smokeshow. 

He’d rather let Ben try and set him up again. 

And last time that happened, Richie set the table on fire, so.

Eddie nodded, barely concealing a wince, “Stan apparently didn’t have this...problem, though. And even if he did, he has Patty. I don’t have a wife anymore, and let’s face it, even if I did—”

“Myra wouldn’t scratch your itch,” Richie couldn’t help but smirk, “Got it.” 

Richie would never forget the shock he had felt when Eddie had first come to him, one night like this, eight months ago, with lowered eyes and small voice, asking him, _When did you know you were gay, Rich?_

It had been one hell of a conversation. Or rather, two conversations. The one the two friends were having on the surface, Richie lamenting about being closeted in a shithole like Derry and Eddie admitting that he had met Myra young, got married, and refused to let himself think about anything else, feel anything else, for fear of...pretty much everything. But mostly, his mother’s disapproval. 

Then there was the conversation Richie had been simultaneously having with himself. The one that steadfastly told him to not, under any circumstances, tell Eddie how he felt about him. Had been feeling since before any murder clowns entered their lives. That he first knew he was gay when at twelve, he scraped his knee and Eddie bent down and cleaned his wound, gently putting a bright purple bandaid over it, and glancing up at him with a small but teasing smile that caused warmth to bloom in Richie’s stomach. Because, while he had finally felt at peace enough to come out publicly three months post-Pennywise 2.0, that did not mean that he was nearly ready enough to flay himself open for the recently-resurrected love of his life to examine. 

“I’m going fucking insane, Rich,” Eddie was continuing, his voice growing higher as he continued to pace, “I—I need to meet someone. I’m gonna tear my dick off if I’m not careful. This last year has been torture, man.”

Richie could relate. In fact, he and his right hand should have been married for all the relations they had been having alone these last few years. 

Turned out, you could pine for the shortassed, short-fused hypochondriac of your dreams even when you couldn’t fully remember him. Who knew? 

“Hookup app seems to be the best way to go,” Eddie was rambling with a heavy sigh, raking a hand down his face, “I just...I need someone to take the edge off. Handjob, blowjob, anything, I don’t care. As long as it’s something other than my right hand, I’m golden.”

“I could help you out.”

Eddie stopped dead in his tracks, head whipping around to regard Richie, who had yet to look up from his beer bottle, but could feel his penetrating stare from across the room.

_The fuck are you doing, you drunk dickwad?! And don’t think about penetrating. Fuck._

Richie could not fathom where the words that had just fallen from his lips had escaped from. But if he had to guess, he would say that the ghost of his thirteen-year-old-self, may have had something to do with it. 

And the four bourbons and seven beers. 

And tequila shot. 

(He and Bev were celebrating his acceptance of her Man of Honour, after all.) 

“Help…” Eddie trailed off, before clearing his throat, “help me out how, Rich?” 

Finally, Richie raised his head.

* * *

[My other Reddie fics are here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid/works?fandom_id=134900) if you want more grown men pining :) 


	2. Helpin’ Hand(job)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m kicking myself that I didn’t call the entire fic the title of this chapter lol. 
> 
> Also, Eddie/Richie’s opinions on dating apps etc are not my own. 
> 
> They continue to be pining idiots. Enjoy!

* * *

“Help me out _how_ , Rich?” 

Richie felt his head tilt upwards, almost as if on autopilot, his brain buzzing with static. 

_What the fuck have you done, Tozier?_

Something unreadable passed across Eddie’s dark eyes as the two stared at one another. 

“You mean uh...you’ll help me with my dating profile, or...or…?” 

Eddie made an aborted gesture that Richie couldn’t even begin to decipher.

The implication still hung heavily between them all the same. 

Richie’s heart thundered in his ears. 

This was his out. 

“I’m hardly a gay guru, I was closeted longer than any of my Hawaiian shirts,” he mumbled, his voice far too quiet, “but I could teach you a thing or two. Sculpt you the perfect profile that’ll have all the guys gaggin’ for more…”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he forced them out anyway. Whatever temporary madness had befallen him had evaporated, and Richie truly understood what was at stake here. He had just gotten Eddie back, for fuck’s sake. First, from twenty-plus years of amnesia and separation and then from literal death. 

What the fuck was he thinking just casually offering his services to rid his best friend of his sexual frustration? 

_That’s what happens when you let Little Richard call the shot_ s, his brain helpfully supplied. 

He almost smirked when he remembered just how much kid Eddie had hated when he called his dick 'Little Richard.' Saying that it was redundant because _‘Dick is already slang for penis and a nickname for Richard, dumbass. Why call it after the guy that sings Good Golly Miss Molly?’_

“Oh,” adult Eddie replied, snapping Richie out of his trip down memory lane, something off in his tone. 

Richie watched as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. 

“I thought...for a sec there that...that you were offering to…”

His entire face was blooming like a ripe tomato. The sight caused Richie’s stomach to swoop pleasantly, despite his nerves fraying at the edges. He stayed silent, watching intently as Eddie seemed to have some sort of inner battle with himself. 

“Because I—you know, I don’t think hookup or even dating apps are really my thing, are they?” He asked in such a way that didn’t really warrant a response, knocking back the rest of his beer and depositing it on the coffee table, “So you know what, forget I said anything, doesn’t matter, I can just...make do on my own, I've lasted this long.” 

He turned on his heel and started towards the door. 

A weight dropped like a stone in Richie’s stomach. He felt for his friend, he really did. He knew the isolation, the loneliness that Eddie was tiptoeing around. Knew how scary it was to be out, how daunting it could feel, how hopeless...

“Thanks for the beer, Rich. See you to—”

“I _could_ help you the other way.” 

Richie was standing.

When had he stood up? 

He couldn’t remember, but nonetheless, he was standing and speaking loudly, probably too loudly, to Eddie’s back, with a throat drier than the Sahara and a ringing in his ears. 

_What the fuck are you—_

“I can...we can cut out the middleman, if you want, Eds. You and...me. Call it—call it a helpin’ handjob or something. That way you don’t have to deal with skeevy guys from the internet.”

A short silence followed his words where he legit thought he was going into cardiac arrest. 

“You are a skeevy guy from the internet.”

Richie couldn’t help the chuckle of relief that bubbled up his throat, it helping to ease the anxiety permeating in his gut. 

Eddie slowly turned back around, face almost completely blank, except for his eyes, that were just on the wrong side of wide. 

“Why?”

And whoa, didn’t that simple, three-letter-word throw him for a loop.

“Why would you...help me out, Rich?”

_Because I don’t want you to have to feel like I felt all those years. Alone, lonely. Because I’m in love with you and clearly never gonna get the chance to be with you any other way, so I’ve subconsciously concocted this batshit way to be close to you without any of the emotional risk because I’m a disgusting—_

“‘Cause I’m a good friend?”

His reply came out more like a question than a statement. Which probably said a lot about Richie’s frame of mind. 

_I know your secret. You’re dirty, little—_

He shook his head to try and rid himself of that bastard’s voice and focus on what was important. 

_Eddie._

Eddie, who was now staring at him as if he had just told him he was marrying Pennywise’s corpse and running away with the circus.

“So, what, you’ll be my... _fuck buddy_?”

And hearing it said out loud like that, yeah, he’d admit it sounded... _bonkers_ . One hundred percent _insane in the membrane_. Still, despite this, Richie’s mouth, as usual, had a mind of its own.

“Yeah, kinda. Like your fuck...assistant,” he tried to explain his flawed logic (that he wasn’t even sure of himself,) “Someone who...helps you out in your time of need so you won’t have to rely on creepy strangers to scratch your itch in a back alley somewhere.” 

Eddie scoffed, “Like I’d be caught dead in a back alley.”

Richie shoved down the urge to remind him that sewers were more his style, while simultaneously ignoring the image of dead Eddie in his arms that still haunted his dreams to this very day. 

It was a whole process. 

“Exactly. With me...you’re with someone you know; somewhere safe.” 

And really, that’s what it all came down to. Richie wanted Eddie to be safe. He had already died once. Not that he still dwelled on that or anything.

_Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Tozier._

A line formed between Eddie’s eyebrows, he thinking the idea over, but clearly conflicted. 

“I...I don’t wanna jeopardize our friendship, though. Wouldn’t...wouldn’t it like, cross a line, or be weird or—”

“Not if we don’t let it,” Richie interjected, knowing he was already doomed, but had come this far now and was at a loss at how to turn back, “People do the whole friends with benefits thing all the time, Eds.” 

He wasn’t quite sure which one of them he was most trying to convince. 

Richie forced himself to stay put as Eddie began to walk back over to him, head tilted.

“Yeah, and they always fail. Haven’t you seen one of the 35,000 movies about it?”

Richie had. Far more than he was willing to admit. And something sparked a flame of hope in him when he remembered that the majority of those films ended with the friends-with-benefits falling in love and becoming boy/girlfriends-with-benefits. 

_Riiiiight. Like Eddie will be drawn in by your magic dick and stay for your winning personality? Dream on, Trashmouth._

Richie winced, ignoring his inner critic, “That won’t happen with us, Eds. I’ve done this successfully before with a few friends of mine, and have been fine. Come on, we survived a demonic, space clown twice and lived to tell the tale. I think we can handle a little hanky panky in the name of helpin’ out a friend.”

“ _You_ survived twice,” Eddie corrected with a wince, “But you’re right, I...I’m not psyched with the whole hookup app idea. I just—I don’t know those guys or who they’ve been with, at least I know exactly how gross you are.”

They shared a smirk. 

“You _have_ been tested, right?”

Richie nodded, thankfully already anticipating this question. 

“Yep. Every three to six months. But you don’t really need to worry about that, Eds. It’s just been me, Rosey Palmer and her five sisters for...awhile now.” 

Heat spread across his face as he chewed on his bottom lip. 

Alcohol always gave Richie loose lips and he was cursing it now. He didn’t exactly revel in the idea of his lifelong crush knowing that he hadn’t gotten laid in over two years. 

A silence fell over them. 

After what seemed like eons, their eyes met. 

“You promise this won’t fuck us up?” Eddie asked, jaw clenched. 

_You’re just doing a friend a favor. That’s all. No reason why it has to get weird or mess things up. No reason—_

_—except your giant heart-boner for him getting in the way and making things decidedly not causal._

“I promise.”

Those two words rang ominously in Richie’s head. 

If he were an even more paranoid man, he'd say the ringing sounded awfully like - _mistake, mistake, mistake..._

As it was, he ploughed ahead, ignoring it.

_Don’t think about ploughing. Shit._

“I’ll just…" he waved a hand, _"help you out_ when you need it. Like frat guys in college.” 

Eddie quirked an eyebrow. 

“Frat guys give each other handjobs?” 

Richie snorted, “Yeah, Eds. Trust me. They do. Well, some of them do anyway. Didn’t you go to college?”

Eddie made a face, “Right, ‘cause I just scream the type that hung around fraternity houses.” 

Richie chuckled, the knot in his stomach loosening minutely. 

Eddie held out his hand. 

Richie stared at it. 

“Shake my fuckin’ hand, dude. We’re making it official and above board and shit.” 

Richie rolled his eyes in amusement before taking his friend’s hand and giving it a firm shake, trying not to think about how his hand would soon be giving a firm shake to something else entirely. 

“You sure you don’t wanna do a blood oath, or—”

“Fuck you, Tozier,” Eddie snickered, clearly annoyed at himself for it, dropping his hand and shoving both of his own in his pockets, shoulders hunched as he mumbled, “So, uh. What now?” 

Richie blinked. Once, twice. 

His hand was still mid-air, so he forced himself to lower it, that all his brain was apparently capable of in that moment as the reality of the situation began to crash down on top of him. 

_Holy fucking shit. Eddie Kaspbrak wants us to be fuck buddies._

“Richie,” Eddie called, his voice thin, “Come on, man. You said you’ve done this before, so, what—”

“Ground rules. What are we talkin’, Eds? How much of my helping hand do you want?” 

Richie was trying his darndest to inject levity into this situation. As absurd as it already was. Because it was the only way he could possibly cope. The adorable flush that spread across Eddie’s face at his words just so happened to be an added bonus. 

“I—uh...you’re the one who offered, Rich. Shouldn’t you…shouldn’t you tell me your...limitations?” 

Thing was, he didn’t think he had any. He would give whatever Eddie was willing to take.

He shook his head, “This is about you, Eds. Not me. So you tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you if I’m good with it.”

Eddie stared at him, digesting his words for a moment. 

“Uh, okay, I—that makes sense,” he nodded, mostly talking to himself.

After a moment, he heaved in a deep breath. 

“How do you feel about blowjobs?”

“Love ‘em. Big fan.”

“ _Richie_.”

“Love giving ‘em too,” Richie added with a faux-smirk as he tried not to think about his mouth wrapped around Eddie’s dick, lest he pop a stiffy right then and there, “My mouth may be trash, Eds. But that doesn’t mean it’s not talented.” 

Eddie’s eyes widened, his jaw slackening a little.

“U-Uh great, good, fine. That’s uh, good to know,” he stuttered, his cheeks aflame, “and um...would, would hand stuff be...okay with you?” 

Richie nodded, heart hammering in his chest, still not believing that they were actually entertaining this insane idea. 

“Told ya I’d give a helpin’ hand, Eds. Two if you’re a good boy.” 

And whoa, that was not supposed to escape his mouth. Ever. 

Eddie’s eyes widened further, practically to the size of saucers, his entire body freezing. 

_Shit. Shit, say something Trashmouth!_

“Okay so, handjobs and blowjobs are on the table. What’s off it?”

Eddie unfroze, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes glued to the floor. 

“Uh, full uh...full sex, like,” he coughed, face on fire, “ _all the way_ or whatever, feels like crossing a line, so. We should probably veto that.” 

Richie nodded, his throat dry. It was probably for the best, just the thought of being inside Eddie, or Eddie being inside him, was enough to make him pass the fuck out. He knew there was no way in hell his heart could handle that type of intimacy, physically or emotionally. 

Eddie continued to mumble to the floor, “And we...we probably shouldn’t kiss either. Right?”

Richie’s treacherous heart skipped a beat.

“What like, Pretty Woman rules?” He asked, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

The blush deepened across Eddie’s cheeks. 

“Uh yeah dude, you know. Kissing is...it’s _intimate_ and, I don’t want—”

“Say no more Vivian, I hear ya loud and clear,” Richie cut across him, his chest constricting painfully as he shoved down his disappointment at hearing Eddie doesn't want to kiss him. 

_But you knew that already, didn't you, Trashmouth?_

Eddie caught his eye, nodding vigorously. 

“Uh, so…" Richie dragged out the "ohhhh", rubbing the back of his neck, “when should I pencil you for a handy or—”

“What are you doing now?”

Richie tried (and failed) to control his shock. He knew he must have resembled a gaping fish. Not exactly his sexiest look but, sue him.

Eddie blanched, no doubt reflecting on his words. 

“I mean, uh...sorry, it’s late, you have rehearsal in the morning, this can wait,” he held up his hands, beginning to back towards the door. 

“Wait, no, I—I’m not busy,” Richie tripped over his own feet after him, “We...I can…” the words died in his throat, unsure how to finish that sentence. 

Eddie blinked, looking from him, to the door, and back again. 

“Are you sure?”

_Hell no._

“Yeah.” 

Richie forced himself back over to the couch with a nonclanance that he most definitely didn’t feel, taking a seat and patting the cushion next to him. 

“C’mere, Eddie.” 

Eddie blinked some more, his brain clearly at least partially offline as he stared down at Richie, his lips slightly parted. 

“Come on, dude. I won’t bite.” 

_Unless you want me to._

Eddie unstuck his feet from the floor and plodded over, sinking into the couch, his thigh almost pressing against Richie's. 

Neither of them spoke for several seconds. 

Richie found himself staring at his mantel where a group picture of the Losers at their first post-Pennywise 2.0 dinner sat. Every one of them was looking at the camera, beaming, except for Richie, who was slightly turned, his dancing gaze directed at an oblivious Eddie.

_Fuck, have I always been so obvious?_

It had been hard during those first few months before Eddie moved to L.A. for Richie to not frantically call him every few minutes to check in with him and make sure he was okay, still here, still alive, that the resurrection didn’t somehow reverse. And when he finally did make it to the City of Angels, Richie had found it even harder not to stare at him every second he was in his presence, lest his disappear, still pinching himself that Eddie was back, breathing, and bitching, as if he had never left. 

But he had. And those few weeks were the worst of Richie’s entire life. 

Too many seconds were ticking by, so Richie tore his eyes from the picture, realising that Eddie was a statue beside him, also staring straight ahead, gaze glued to the photograph too.

"You uh...you good, Eds?" 

A spike of panic flooded Richie’s veins. His voice had gone far too quiet again. It sounded soft, in a way that made him feel exposed. Which was ridiculous because he wasn't the one about to whip out his dick. 

Eddie nodded, his fingers drumming a beat on his own thigh. 

"You uh, you want me to stop at any point, just say, okay? I won't... I won't do anything without your permission first." 

Another nod.

Richie's stomach twisted. 

"You tryin' out for a place in the mime academy, Kaspbrak? You know me, verbal spitfire is what gets me goin', so—"

Eddie cut him off by deftly unzipping his slacks with a speed and dexterity that Richie frankly envied. 

"I always knew you'd be a talker. Guess even sex isn't enough to shut you up, Trashmouth."

Richie's face burned as his eyes trailed down to his friend's lap, surprised to find a slight bulge. 

_Eds is already half hard. When the fuck did that happen?!_

His eyes trailed back up Eddie's body, cataloguing the flush spreading up his neck from the sliver of skin visible where two of the buttons on his crisp, burgundy shirt were undone. 

Richie almost swallowed his tongue at the sight. 

Eddie seemed to be looking anywhere but at him, before his eyes slipped closed altogether, he leaning back into the couch. 

Richie watched as the material of his pants strained against the outline of his dick. 

A moan clawed its way up his throat, but he swallowed it back down. There was no way he was moving or making a noise right now. Eddie was like a spooked horse, and he was doing everything in his power to ease his nerves. Which, for Richie, meant shutting the fuck up for once. He leaned over towards the coffee table, pulling open a drawer and rummaging inside for a moment before finding what he was looking for. 

He shoved the travel-sized bottle of lube into the pocket of his sweatpants and turned back to Eddie, trying to level his breathing. 

"I...um," Eddie opened his eyes a crack, no doubt at the rifling noises, checking as if to see if Richie was still there, (like he would rather be anywhere else), "I'm ready whenever you are?" 

He phrased it like a question and Richie knew he was giving him another opportunity to back out. An opportunity Richie should most definitely take, but knew he wasn't going to. Because at the end of the day, Eddie needed him. And he was always weak whenever it came to Eddie in any capacity, really. 

_I know your secret. Your dirty, little_ —

"You uh, you tell me to stop whenever you want, okay?" He whispered, the power of his voice diminishing with each passing second as their eyes locked, Richie's hand hovering over the dark material of Eddie's boxers, peeking through from gap in his fly. 

Eddie gave one last nod, fingers now clumsily wrestling with the button of his pants, trying and failing to open it. 

When a grunt of frustration escaped him, Richie's hand came down to press against his, gently pushing it away. 

"Let me." 

Eddie's eyes shot up to meet his, breath a little laboured as he let his hand fall to rest on the couch cushion. 

Permission granted, Richie slowly and carefully reached down to brush his fingers against the button, undoing it with one hand and mentally patting himself on the back for managing not to fumble, considering his brain was currently leaking out of his ears. 

Taking a deep breath to try (in vain) to steady his rapid heartbeat, Richie gently pushed aside the material to reveal the front of Eddie's very fancy-looking, dark-navy boxer briefs. 

His mouth absolutely did not begin to water a little, no sir. 

Letting out the breath, he trailed his hand that little bit further down, finally brushing his fingers against the growing bulge. 

A noticeable shudder shook through Eddie. 

“W-Wait.”

Richie’s hand froze.

Slowly, he glanced up, meeting those dark eyes he loved so much. 

They were wide. And worried. Not exactly what Richie was hoping to see in this situation.

“This is crazy,” Eddie murmured, tearing his gaze away and thumping his head back into the couch, “is this crazy? We’re—we’re best friends. We’ve known each other since kindergarten. I—I know there was a break for a while but, we’re still best friends, and neighbors and...we probably shouldn’t do this, Rich."

Richie’s hand leapt off him as if burned, he shuffling away from him, down towards the other end of the couch. 

“Sorry, man. Yeah, you’re—you’re right. We’ll just forget about it, okay? No harm done. I’ll help you set up a eHormonal account or whatever and we’ll get you—”

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good,” Eddie nodded vigorously, jumping up off the couch and clumsily zipping up his pants. 

“Okay.”

“Okay.” 

Richie watched, glued to the couch, as his friend retreated, bolting across the apartment and halting at the door. 

“Thanks for the offer, though, Rich,” Eddie called over his shoulder, his voice noticeably strained as he opened the door and took a step out into the corridor, “You’re a good friend.” 

As the door shut behind him with a reverberating snap, the heaviness in Richie’s gut, made him feel anything but. 

* * *

  
He couldn't get to sleep. 

It wasn't quite as bad as those two weeks where he thought the love of his life had sacrificed himself to save him and he’d never hear his endearing bitching ever again, but still, the tossing and turning was maddening, nonetheless.

Eddie had left just over twenty minutes ago and Richie had forced himself to go straight to bed, because fuck, what else was he gonna do? Pace the floor and berate himself for being a fucking stupid, pining disaster who very nearly took advantage of his friend's sexual frustration because he was weak and in love and desperate? 'Cause he could do that from the comfort of his own bed, thank you very much. 

Gritting his teeth, he turned over onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling, his head pounding with his upcoming hangover and darkening thoughts. 

_What the fuck is wrong with you, Tozier? Eds is your friend. You’ve jeopardised one of the best and oldest friendships you’ve ever had. Yeah, he said he needed help getting off, but that doesn't mean you volunteer yourself as fucking tribute like you're a discount fucking Kat—_

A single, solitary knock sounded from the front door. 

Richie never moved so fast in his life, bolting out of bed and sliding on his socks Risky-Business-style into the living room. He skidded, breathing heavily, his ears straining to hear anything. 

Silence met him. 

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he forced his feet forward, reaching out and unlocking his door, the sudden noise of it echoing in his ears. 

He pulled it open slowly, his heart hammering in his chest at the sight revealed behind it. 

There, standing in his corridor with wild eyes and mused hair (as if a hand had raked through it many a time) was Eddie Kaspbrak, gaping at him as if he didn't quite know how he had gotten there. 

"I—" he began, forcing his gaze to meet Richie's, tongue sneaking out to wet his bottom lip as he gasped out all in one breath, "I...need you to touch me, Richie. Please." 

Richie’s heart stopped. 

“Eds, I—what? Are you sure? What about—”

“It’s like you said, we’ll be fine,” Eddie cut across him, “and I trust you.”

Warmth pooled in the pit of Richie’s stomach. 

Something clouded Eddie’s gaze, then. 

“Un...unless you don’t want to? I—I know I’m asking a lot of you, and like, it’s weird ‘cause it’s me, and that’s totally o—”

Richie leapt over the threshold, his hand shooting forward, grabbing a fistful of Eddie's shirt and tugging him into the apartment, slamming the door shut, before gently pressing him back against it, careful to cup the back of his head so he wouldn't hit it. 

"It’s all okay with me, Eds, if it’s okay with you,” he breathed, pulling his hand out from under his skull and unclenching his other hand from his shirt and beginning to trail it down Eddie's body, causing another shiver to follow in its wake.

"Same as before. You tell me to stop, I stop. No questions asked. You're runnin’ the show." 

Eddie nodded so vigorously that his head thumped hard against the door. Richie winced, wanting to immediately put his hand back under his head but stopping himself. 

"Y-Yeah, yeah. Just get on with it, Tozier." 

His bravado was fooling no one, but Richie let it slide. There were more important things at hand. Literally. 

He went weak at the knees when he realised that Eddie had already undone his button and partially unzipped his pants. 

Biting his lip, Richie took one last glance up at his friend for consent. And when he was met with an eye roll and another fervent nod, he allowed his fingers to finally close around his clothed-bulge, squeezing gently.

A loud groan escaped Eddie, his entire body tensing and his eyes rolling back into his skull for an entirely different reason. 

Richie took a moment to gape at how keyed up he already was, and the weight of his cock in his hand, before unzipping his pants fully, hiking them down a little to expose his boxers. 

Without giving himself time to psych himself out, Richie reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and took out the bottle of lube that he (thankfully) forgot to take out before going to bed. 

He flipped open the lid and squirted out a generous amount onto his palm, drinking in the sight of Eddie Fucking Kaspbrak pliant against his door, hair a mess, clothes rumbled and undone, eyes screwed shut in anticipation. 

The sight was straight out of one of his wet dreams. 

Tearing his eyes away, Richie pocketed the lube with his clean hand before rubbing it on his messy hand between his fingers, warming it. 

_Okay, okay you can do this, Tozier. Just like you've done in your dreams countless times before. Just jerk off your friend, your lifelong friend and love of your lif_ e. Easy pea—

His brain went quiet when his fingers closed around Eddie's hot skin, pulling his cock out of his boxers and into view. Richie bit his lip so hard it broke the skin. In all their time as friends, stripping for cannonballs into quarries and showering after gym, Richie had never seen Eddie's dick. Not once. 

Mainly because he always, steadily, carefully averted his eyes in locker rooms and other scenarios where he found himself in the vicinity of a half-dressed hypochondriac, because it was Derry, it was the '80s, and boys who liked boys usually ended up being dead boys. 

_Focus, Tozier! Now is not the time for traumatic childhood reflections._

He began to slide his hand up from the base of his cock, to the tip, ripping a choked moan from Eddie. Richie marvelled at the bead of precum already gathered there, biting his lip harder to quieten his own groan, knowing that this wouldn’t take long.

"S-Shit, fuck," Eddie gasped, hands shooting up to clasp Richie’s shoulders tightly, arching his back a little, hips jerking in time with Richie’s ministrations. 

Richie didn't trust himself to speak, so instead focussed on twisting his wrist just right, pleased as another moan was wrenched from Eddie's throat. 

His own dick was as hard as a rock in his sweatpants (had been since the couch, really) at the sight of Eddie's thick, long, un-cut cock, flushed crimson and leaking in his hand, but he refused to give himself relief. This wasn't about him, he couldn't get off from this and still look at himself in the mirror tomorrow morning. 

So he sped up his efforts, squeezing just a little tighter and brushing his thumb over the head of Eddie's cock that he exposed with the stretch of foreskin, spreading the beads of precum. 

“Ah—f-faster,” Eddie gasped, fucking harder into his hand, collapsing forward, into Richie’s neck, hands resting across his back, practically hugging him as he breathed heavily against his skin. 

Richie fought back a shiver at being enveloped in Eddie’s warmth, with Eddie's lips so close to his earlobe, his hot breath causing goosebumps to erupt across his flesh. 

He jerked his hand faster, the sound of slapping skin and Eddie’s labored breath automatically filing away in the back of his mind to reflect on later. 

“Shit, oh g—I’m c-close.”

Eddie sounded...wrecked. Desperate. His voice broken and raw as his hips starting to lose rhythm, his thrusts not quite matching Richie’s touch as he chased his impending orgasm. 

“It’s okay, Eds,” Richie spoke for the first time, quietly into his ear, “just let go…” 

Eddie’s knees buckled as he let out a strangled cry, coming hard all over Richie’s fingers.

Richie caught him around the waist with his free hand, taking on his full weight. 

"I got ya, I got ya Eds, just breathe." 

Seconds ticked by, where Richie slowly withdrew his hand, wiping it hastily on his pantleg, before gently tucking Eddie back into his boxers and doing up his fly.

Eddie seemed to come around—

_Pun intended._

—at that, hands falling to his sides as he cleared his throat and pulled away.

“Shit, sorry, didn’t uh...didn’t mean to check out like that,” he murmured, sounding mortified. 

Richie took a step back, trying to catch his eye. 

Eddie seemed to be more interested in Richie’s hardwood floor, however. 

“It’s alright, dude. It’s like you said, the resurrection has been messing you up with all this. It’s bound to be...draining.” 

Eddie nodded at that, his eyes slowly starting to lift from the floor, only to catch on something a quarter of the way up.

“Oh, you—you didn’t,” he made an aborted gesture at Richie’s crotch, cheeks darkening, “Should I—”

“No!” Richie exclaimed a little too forcefully, stumbling back a little.

“Uh, I mean, nah man. Thanks, but uh...you don’t...you don’t need to. This isn’t about me. You don’t—you don’t need to worry about...that. It’s just uh...you know a...byproduct,” he finished lamely, his entire body burning with embarrassment at his painfully aroused state, with his fogged glasses and bird’s-nest-hair in his baggy sweatpants and dumb graphic tee, the near-dark apartment seeming far too bright all of a sudden. 

He hardly thought he made for the most erotic sight. 

An indescribable expression crossed Eddie’s face then, his eyebrows furrowed, a deep line forming between them. 

_Yeah, you’re definitely no Brad Pitt, Trashmouth._

A beat of silence passed in the apartment, Richie’s heart ricocheting harshly against his ribcage before Eddie gave a quick nod, gaze averted. 

“Okay then. Uh, thanks, Rich. Hope rehearsals go well. Goodnight.” 

With that, he turned on the spot, flung open the door and stepped out, practically bolting down the corridor without a backwards glance. 

Richie’s brain took a second to catch up, but when it finally did, Eddie was already to the stairwell and out of sight. 

His heart sank. 

He couldn’t help but feel like they had already crossed the line of no return. 

_So much for not breaking your promise, dickwad._

* * *

[Come yell at me about these losers.](http://octoberobserver.tumblr.com) Thinking of doing Eddie's POV next. Thoughts?


	3. You’re travelling through another dimension...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was a dumb idea,” Eddie rasped out, “the—the friends with benefits, thing.” 
> 
> Richie merely nodded, eyes as wide as Ben’s after a doobie. 
> 
> “Y-Yeah, it uh...it probably wasn’t my best brain baby, huh?”
> 
> Eddie’s fingers tightened around Richie’s wrist. 
> 
> "Terrible."
> 
> Richie nodded again.
> 
> “The worst,” he agreed. 
> 
> They stared at each other, barely breathing, the air practically sparking between them. 
> 
> “...wanna do it again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, it’s been 84 years. My bad. That’s what I get for trying to write 5 Reddie fics, a Spideypool fic and work on a YouTube channel simultaneously lol. But here’s the next chapter of Richie and Eddie being human disasters. Enjoy!
> 
> Note: Adrian Mellon met Eddie in the afterlife and they became buds before also being magicked back to life via space turtle or whatever. This is my own personal fix-it-headcanon that has crossed into many of my fics. He and Don (along with Patty Uris) are now honorary members of The Losers’ Club. 
> 
> Fun fact: I’m physically incapable of writing “come” as “cum.” Precum seems to be the exception. Idk. I'm weird. Sorry.
> 
> TW for internalised homophobia and references to drug-use.

Eddie Kaspbrak was a fucking idiot. 

A dumb, stupid, fucknut. 

And he had nobody to blame but himself. 

Not even Richie Tozier. 

The same Richie Tozier who had been his best friend since Kindergarten.

The same Richie Tozier who had loogie contests with him and sneaked him Laffy Taffy and Airheads and any other candy that his mom had banned from the Kaspbrak household. 

The very same Richie Tozier that had, not twelve hours ago, made him come harder than he had in his entire life, and experience an orgasm he hadn't ever thought possible. 

All because Eddie was a dumb, horny idiot who went rambling about his sexual frustration at two in the morning. 

And got a handy for his trouble. 

From his loogie-enthusiast, candy-stealing best friend from Kindergarten. 

_Fuck._

"—ak? Mr Kaspbrak?” 

Eddie’s head shot up from where he had been staring into space, bran muffin smushing between his fingers, even more tasteless than usual, to meet the inquisitive eye of the office receptionist, Brandi. 

“What?” 

He knew he was being rude. But frankly was running on too little sleep and too much self-flagellation to feel very bad about it. 

Brandi threw him an apologetic smile, as if she was the one being a dickhead. 

_She deserves a raise._

“Your two o’clock is here. Should I show him in?” 

Right...Eddie was at work. At his job. His job that paid him to be a consummate professional and not to have multiple internal crises about the potential destruction of his lifelong friendship because of his raging labido and lax sense of self-preservation. 

(Even if it was technically during lunch.)

“Uh, sorry Brandi. Yeah. Please show him in.” 

Eddie had been working on autopilot ever since he stumbled back into his own apartment in the dead of night, the sticky, drying residue of his own jizz ruining not just his boxers, but his brand new pair of pants that Bev had helped pick out. And yet, he didn’t give a shit. Because he had just had the most intense orgasm he ever experienced in his entire life. From a quick, messy handjob by his best friend at the grand ol’ age of 41. 

He wasn’t sure if that was sad or not. 

“Eddie Kaspbrak, how are ya, man?” 

Pushing away his impending freakout, Eddie dropped the muffin, wiped his hand surreptitiously on his pant-leg and forced himself to stand up, reluctantly shaking hands with Rick Lebedev, a business associate from back in New York. Rick had been alright, someone he saw every now and again at the various symposiums and seminars he was forced to attend, but they were far from acquaintances, let alone friends. 

There was just this...air about him. He was tall, almost intimidatingly so, if Eddie was the type to be bothered by that kinda thing. He was also a natural blond which always freaked Eddie the fuck out. And he was hot. In like an annoying, general, all-round kinda way.

Eddie could admit that, now. 

That was the real reason he never let himself get too close to Rick. Because Eddie found him insanely attractive but could never acknowledge it, even to himself. And that was fifty shades of fucked up. 

Or, it wasn't and Eddie had some...what did Richie call it? 

_"Internalised homophobia, Eduardo. It's a bitch."_

Right. That it was. 

"Whoa, gotta say, Kaspbrak. Divorce suits you." 

Eddie pulled himself from his reverie, meeting the piercing green, roaming eyes with a flush. 

And that was the other thing. 

What also stopped Eddie from getting too close to the tall blond with an admittedly interesting personality (for a risk analyst.) 

Rick was constantly flirting with him. 

...and Eddie kinda liked it.

“Uh, thanks. Take a seat,” he gestured in a half-flail, swallowing around the dry lump in his throat, his heart picking up pace in his chest. 

_Get a grip, Kaspbrak. Jesus._

Rick did as told, jade eyes flashing a little in the way they always had back in New York, but Eddie had, in his desperation, always failed to see, flat out ignored and/or avoided at all costs. 

“What uh...what can I do for you, man?” 

Rick clasped his hands together in front of him, raising them to his lips. 

Eddie stared, actually allowing himself for the first time ever. 

Rick had big-ish hands. 

Tanned.

Almost hairless and what hair that was there, was a golden blond. 

Nothing like Richie’s. 

_Whoa, where the fuck did that come from?_

Suddenly, unbidden, the memory of an entirely different set of hands, large, pale, dusted with dark hair, flashed across his mind. Large, very talented hands wrapping around his dick. Squeezing and pumping him hard until he practically blacked out, painting that pale, finely-dusted skin with his come. 

Heat flared in Eddie’s abdomen.

_Fuck._

“—that good?”

Eddie’s eyes snapped back up to Rick’s, his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he accidentally daydreamed about Richie’s handjob skills in the middle of a meeting. God, he wanted those hands to touch him again. His stomach jolted at the thought. 

“Uh yeah, sure, sounds good,” Eddie nodded, having no idea what he just agreed to. 

A slow smile crossed Rick’s face. 

It instantly had Eddie’s heckles up. 

“Cool. Can’t wait for you to show me around town, Kaspbrak.”

_Wait, what?_

“Wait, what?”   
  


* * *

  
"You look like shit."

"You look like Ike Barinholtz." 

Don Hagarty tipped his head to the side in that irritatingly cute way of his. 

"Who's that?" 

"Oh, fuck off, you know who he is you millennial piece of shit," Richie groaned into the crook of his elbow from where he was slumped over his dressing table.

“Wow, Boomers hate us, Gen X hate us, it’ll be Gen Z next...we just can’t win,” Don sighed sarcastically, his eye-roll practically audible in his tone.

"Remind me why I made you my assistant again?" Richie grumbled, shoving his face further into his sleeve. 

"'Cause your best friend and my boyfriend became buds in the afterlife?" Don phrased it like a question even though it was fact. 

A weird, unbelievable, truly twisted fact.

"And," he shrugged, "I make the best coffee.”

He punctuated this by plonking Richie’s thermos down on the desk. 

“You’re a God among men,” Richie changed tact as he forced his head up, clutching anxiously at the flask.

“You sure coffee is a good idea, man? Your hands are shaking more than they did during the Fallon interview after you came out.” 

Richie glared up at him, far too tired to hold the scowl in place long. 

“Look,” he sighed, taking a sip and barely holding back a groan when the heavenly liquid hit his taste buds, “I had a long night, okay?”

Don suddenly looked as if all his birthdays and Christmases had come at once, which, on reflection, Richie really should have anticipated. 

“Oh it’s _like that,_ huh?” he asked, his eyes twinkling, “Do I have to be the one to break Adrian’s heart and tell him you hooked up all on your own without his loving interference?” 

_You can’t tell him. Don’t tell him. This was between you and Eds and you can’t—_

“I burped the baby with Eddie last night.” 

Don blinked. 

“Uh...what?”

Richie rolled his eyes. 

“You know, I gave him a Houston high five.” 

Don’s brow furrowed. 

“A Baltimore Milkshake.” 

The furrow deepened. 

“A Sunday Surprise.” 

And deepened. 

“Jesus—a handjob! Fuck! I gave Eddie a handjob last night.” 

Don froze, his own coffee cup halfway to his mouth, eyes like saucers.

Richie’s voice practically rang in his ears.

_Shit. Good going, Trashmouth. Don’t think they heard you in Delaware._

“Eddie...like, _Eddie-Eddie_?” Don gaped.

“How many fuckin’ ‘Eddies’ do we know, Donatello?” Richie winced, hating the vitriol in his tone. 

He was the fuck up here. Not Don. Don didn’t deserve Richie’s ire.

“So you...you _told him_ then?” Don asked far too softly as if already knowing the answer. “You told him how you feel?” 

Richie glanced up, finally meeting his friend’s eyes.

Once upon a time, he would have thought to deny it. Maybe even unconvincingly ask ‘what do you mean how I feel?’ before dodging the question entirely. But in the last year, Richie had grown tired of hiding. At least from those he cared about. Especially when all the smug bastards knew already but were too kind to point it out. 

(Most of the time.) 

“Not exactly.”

Don’s eyebrows were practically in his hair.

“Richie…”

“I know!”

He was up and out of his seat, flailing as Don’s disapproving tone wrapped around his name in a way that he really should have been used to by now. Because he had been a fuck up his whole life. Everyone knew it. And eventually, they all said his name in that exact way that set his teeth on edge. 

“Stan is gonna kill you.” 

Richie paused in his pacing, his shoulders sagging in a sigh. “I know.”

“And that’s if Bev doesn’t get to you first.” 

“I know,” he repeated, running a palm down his face.

“And Adrian, he’s already pissed he had to miss out on the dinner and now—”

“I said I know, Don, fuck!”

A short silence fell between them before Don took a small step forward, voice low. 

“How did—can I ask— _how_ exactly did you end up giving your best friend a handjob?”

Guilt swirled in the pit of Richie's stomach. He had already said too much; broke Eddie's trust by admitting even that. But he was freaking the fuck out and was never good at talking himself off ledges.

_How the fuck did you ever think you could pull this off, Trashmouth?_

Case in point.

Eddie wasn't Todd Butterly from college. He wasn't Richie's roommate that he sometimes fooled around with when they were drunk or high and always horny that they could casually brush off and go their separate ways in the morning until Todd eventually got a girlfriend and decided his little experiment was over. 

Eddie wasn't Jace DeWitt from Improv that Richie exchanged a few messy blowjobs and one memorable rimjob with at wrap parties before doing a bump of coke off his abs. 

Eddie wasn't Eric Rose, Richie's longest 'relationship' of four whole months where all they did was fuck for weekends at a time before disappearing and living their totally separate, closeted lives until TMZ got a little too close for comfort and they called it quits, settling for the odd booty call at 3am whenever they were in the neighborhood. 

Eddie was... _Eddie_. 

They may have been forced to take a break for a while there, but they were still _best fucking friends._ Had been since before either of them could remember. Had been through thick and thin together, had laughed, cried and been scared out of their minds together. 

Had saved one another. 

Had died and grieved. 

Had come back and rejoiced. 

Had re-started a shared life together. 

There was nothing casual about them.

Not even a handjob. 

_Especially_ not a handjob.

And Richie knew it. 

"I uh...we were tipsy, and horny and I was my usual dumb self and suggested a friends with benefits type deal. Brojobs, that kinda thing. Look," he waved dismissively, "the details aren't important. What _is_ important, is how the fuck do I fix this?" 

Don blinked at him, seemingly processing the brief yet total whirlwind of information. 

“Well…” he gave a half-shrug, “that depends. Did he enjoy it?”

Richie balked. 

“Uh, I...fuck, I hope so?” He winced at his high-pitched tone, waving a hand, “He kinda road-runnered his way outta there after but like, it’s not every day that your BFF gives you a handy, so maybe he doesn’t know the etiquette and fuck, neither do I and—holy shit, Don, what the fuck have I done?!” 

Richie tugged at his hair as the monumental weight of last night that he had been trying to keep at bay finally came crashing down on him. 

Don stepped forward, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Richie, relax. You don’t even know if there’s anything to fix—”

Richie’s heart stopped.

“Fuck, shit, fuck like—you think Eddie doesn’t wanna be friends anymore? Is he gonna move out of the apartment building? Ghost me on the groupchat? Never speak to me a—”

“Whoa, Rich, hold up, I’m not saying anything like that,” Don cut him off mid-spiral, hands held up in the air like he was a taller Chris Pratt and Richie was a particularly antsy velociraptor. 

“All I meant was...you guys are solid. You should just talk to him about it. Work things out. You never know...it could end up being a good thing,” he paused, looking a little hesitant at how to continue. 

Richie’s heart hammered in his ears. 

“And if not…” Don sighed, “Your friendship has been through so much, more than anyone’s would go through in several lifetimes. Literal life and death shit. You really think one drunken fumble in the dark is enough to break you?” 

Richie paused his frenetic pacing in the too-small dressing room, feeling like a cooped up lion at the circus. 

_Lion. Velociraptor. Lionciraptor? Vion?_

“It’s like a bajillion degrees in here,” he said in lieu of actually responding to Don’s admittedly solid (and pretty much verbatim what he had said to Eddie) point, fanning under his pits, the oversized hawaiian shirt that he had insisted on wearing to pretty much everyone’s chagrin, bunching uncomfortably in places. 

“Yeah well, you’re hyperventilating and are on your what, ninth coffee?” Don asked with a sympathetic wince, “I would make the ‘fuck man, just do cocaine’ joke, but—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie waved it off with a roll of his eyes, “leave the jokes to me, Gen Whine.” 

Don smirked.

“Speaking of—”

“Solid segue, bravo.”

“You’re wanted back on set.” 

Richie sighed for what felt like the bajillionth time. 

_Is bajillion an actual number?_ his hyperactive mind enquired and he steadily ignored for another sip of not-as-good-as-cocaine-but-will-do-juice. 

Summoning every ounce of strength from back in his days of ‘80s repression, Richie squared his shoulders and stood up straight.

_Only straight thing about ya, bud._

“Alright, the show must go on, or whatever the fuck.” 

His post-hand-job-meldown (and everything else that went with it) would have to wait a little longer.

“Show time.” 

* * *

He shouldn’t knock.

He wouldn't knock.

He couldn’t possibly—

Eddie knocked. 

His chest burned as he held his breath, his mind racing a million miles a minute. 

He had spent his entire drive home amping himself up to do the exact opposite of this. To force himself to bypass his friend’s apartment entirely, to will his weary feet into his own apartment, even as they itched to plod upstairs and collapse onto Richie’s couch as was their routine after every bad day at work. (And good days and uneventful days and...)

But things had changed.

They _had_ changed, right? 

_Maybe you’d know the answer to that if you didn’t flee like a fuckin’ felon the second Richie let go of your dick. Asshole._

It wasn’t his proudest moment, true. But, in his defense, his brain had been leaking out of his ears post-orgasm, so he wasn’t exactly in tip-top-shape thinking-wise. 

_What’s your excuse now?_

Heart leaping into his throat, Eddie could feel himself giving into his nerves the longer he stared at the closed door and the longer that insidious, little inner voice that sounded more like a bastardised version of 13-year-old him every day, spouted venom in the back of his mind.

_Your friendship is over, dickwad. You ruined it with your horny ranting and unrequited—_

“Eds?” 

Eddie’s eyes snapped up just as he was turning to book it back down the corridor. 

There, looking bleary-eyed, wearing the absolute ugliest shirt Eddie had ever seen, stood Richie Tozier, bird-nest hair as wild as usual as he squinted sans-glasses into the hallway. 

Eddie’s heart gave a treacherous lurch at the sight. 

“Uh, hey. Sorry. Did I...were you napping or—”

Richie shrugged, shuffling back and forth on his feet a bit, not quite meeting his eye. 

Eddie was keenly aware that this was now the longest he had spent in Richie’s hallway without either bulldozing his way into the apartment or being enthusiastically ushered in. 

(And those were just the times he didn’t use his key.) 

(Not that he ever _needed_ to use his key. Hell, he didn’t even carry it on him most times, because he was nearly always with Richie, or welcome in Richie’s home and just walked in the dangerously-unlocked door without thinking.)

Not tonight, though. 

_Oh yeah. Things are different, alright._

“I uh, I just wanted to stop by and…”

The words died in Eddie’s throat as he realised he had absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence. 

Richie seemed to be staring at a spot over his shoulder. 

“Are we okay?!” Eddie blurted out suddenly, unnerved by his best friend’s quietness, synapses pushing each and every panic button in his head simultaneously. 

Richie reared back as if Eddie physically struck him. 

“What? Eds...why would you—”

“I don’t know, Rich, maybe because you gave me the ol’ Hugh Jackman last night and now can’t look me in the eye. So, you tell me.” 

Richie’s eyebrows raised. 

“The ol’ Hugh Jackman? Eddie, that’s fucking gold. Can I use that?” 

Eddie let out a breath.

“Richie.” 

He could hear the worry in his own voice, it loud and sharp nestled in between those two syllables. 

Richie winced, reaching out and clasping his shoulder, squeezing gently, finally meeting his eye.

“Of course we’re okay, man. I promised you we would be, remember?” 

Eddie allowed himself to stare into those large, expressive eyes, completely unhindered by their usual sheets of glass. 

His heart hammered in his chest. 

“Yeah. You did. You promised.” 

His voice was far too raspy, as if he couldn’t catch his breath. 

Richie nodded, giving his shoulder another squeeze.

“And in all our years as friends, have I ever broken a promise to you?” 

_You promised you’d write._

_You promised you’d visit._

_You promised you wouldn’t forget me._

“No.” 

Eddie knew those broken promises weren’t fair. They didn’t count, couldn’t count. Not where Pennywise and his godforsaken amnesia magic were concerned. 

“Exactly,” Richie tilted his head, seemingly taking in their position and letting his hand drop, but stepping inside to usher him in as normal. 

(It only slightly lacking in his usual flair.) 

“You want some Mac ‘n’ Cheese? It’s still warm.” 

Eddie’s stomach gave an embarrassingly loud rumble as he began to shed his suit jacket. He chuckled, stepping further into the apartment and closing the door behind him. The same door that Richie had pressed him against, cradling the back of his head in his giant hand, while he worked his pants open with the other and— 

“Yeah. Thanks,” he forced out a little too loudly as if to drown out his wandering thoughts. 

He watched as Richie made his way into his kitchen, snatching up his glasses, from the coffee table, heading to the wine fridge (which was a chocolate and pudding cup fridge until Eddie started stocking it) and pulling out Eddie’s favourite, handing him a glass before turning to the stove. His movements were so fluid, so practiced at this point, it was almost routine. 

Eddie draped his jacket over the back of the chair, loosening his tie and pulling it over his head, rolling his shirt sleeves up his forearms. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Richie pause, but when he glanced up, Richie had busied himself back at the stove. 

Trying not to overthink it, Eddie sat himself at the island, in his usual seat on the left and smiled at his friend’s off-key humming. 

It felt like routine because honestly, at this point, it was. 

A bowl of steaming pasta slid under his nose. 

It smelled divine. 

Eddie glanced up, watching as Richie did his little ta-tah motion that always accompanied one of his (surprisingly) tasty (if simplistic) meals before taking his usual seat beside him. 

Warmth settled in Eddie’s stomach. 

_We’re okay._

“Dig in, Spagheds. Embrace your cannibalism.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Do you really have to make that joke every time? This isn’t even spaghetti.” 

“It’s spaghetti-adjacent.” 

“You’re spaghetti-adjacent.” 

Richie snorted, taking in their position beside one another. 

“Good comeback, Kaspbrak. Very thirteen-years-old of you.” 

“So exactly your type of humour then?” 

Richie’s entire face lit up. 

“And Eddie gets off a good one!” 

Eddie chuckled, catching Richie’s eye mid-laugh, his face heating up at the look of mirth in his friend's gaze. 

_Yeah, we’re okay._

Richie snatched up the remnants of his own food and gestured to the TV. 

“There’s a Twilight Zone marathon on. Wanna join?” 

They really should have seen enough horror, paranoia and trauma to last a lifetime. But fuck, did Eddie love Rod Sterling. 

“Sure.”

They settled on the couch, like they did most nights, Eddie on the left, Richie on the right, a couch-cushion-space between them that usually got smaller and smaller as time wore on. More often than not, ending with Eddie’s sleepy head falling on Richie’s shoulder as the weight of the day crashed down on him. 

But not tonight. 

Eddie wasn’t sure if he was quite there yet. 

They should probably talk about it, at some point. 

That was probably the adult thing to do. 

But Eddie was so sick of being an adult. Was forced into being one for the majority of his time. He was entitled to be a little childish every once and awhile. And if childish meant avoidance of an awkward and potentially soul-destroying conversation, then so be it. 

Richie fumbled for the remote on the coffee table, aiming it at the TV where he had it paused. 

“This one’s a classic.”

“They're from the ‘60s, Richie. They’re all classics.” 

“Touché.” 

And just like that, they settled into their well-worn routine, one they had cultivated over the last year, just like they would have any other night. 

They were on their second bottle of Eddie's favourite Merlot and who knew what number episode, when Richie started giving him déjà vu. 

“Aww, Shatner! I believe ya, buddy! Get that sasquatch motherfucker!”

Eddie snickered behind his wine glass at Richie’s continuous crowing.

“You remember the first time we watched this? Down in your parents’ basement?” He asked, side-eyeing his friend from the couch, “You were a lot less vocal back then. I thought you were gonna crap your pants.” 

Richie predictably whirled around to gape at him, scandalised. 

“First of all,” he pointed a finger in Eddie’s face, pausing to drain his glass, “you’re one to talk, you were buried so deep in the couch I thought I’d have to call Went for a crowbar, and second of all, it was the Lithgow episode that time, not this one.” 

Eddie shook his head vigorously, angling his entire body around to Richie, pointing back at him with his glass. 

“Nope, I distinctly remember you saying,” he cleared his throat and attempted his best thirteen-year-old-Trashmouth voice, “He’s right there, Captain Kirk! Look out! Aww, Spock would believe you, buddy.” 

Richie grimaced. 

“Was that voice supposed to be _me_? Seriously? That’s the best that you can do?”

“Oh fuck you, yours aren’t much better.” 

Richie gasped, clutching at his chest and throwing his head back dramatically. 

“Edward, how dare you?! I thought you were my biggest fan?” 

“I am.” 

_Well, that was off-script._

Eddie knew his voice was far too sincere for the tone of the conversation, but couldn’t help it. 

He watched Richie’s face visibly soften, something indescribable crossing his gaze.

“Doesn’t mean your impressions are good, though. Just means I’m a good friend.” 

Richie gave another squawk before shoving a cushion in Eddie’s face. 

“You little turd!” 

“Watch the gla—Richie!”

Richie pulled the glass away from him, slamming it way too hard onto the coffee table, his cackle drowning out Eddie’s protests as he, like the absolute perpetual tween that he was, started smacking Eddie in the face over and over with the cushion, kneeling up on the couch to tower over him. 

_Oh, yes! Yes! Fuck! Give it to me. Give me that monster cock!_

They both froze. 

High-pitched moaning filled the room, followed by a rhythmic, unmistakable thumping. 

Eddie peeked out from behind the cushion just in time to see a low-angled shot of a giant dick thrusting in between two ass cheeks, tan, bare legs quivering at the motion. 

“Uh…” 

_Yes, yes! Fuck me harder. Come in me, give me that juicy—_

“Shit, shit sorry, I kneeled on the...” Richie scrambled up, his voice half an octave higher than usual as he fumbled around for the remote. 

Just as he picked it up, pointing it at the TV, Eddie’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. 

“Wait.” 

Richie went rigid under Eddie’s touch. 

_Yes! Oh my God, I’m coming. Fuck I’m—_

“Uh, Eddie?”

Eddie’s eyes snapped away from the TV to meet Richie’s. 

He could feel his blood rapidly flowing south. 

“It was a dumb idea,” he rasped out, feeling parched despite having only had a sip of wine seconds ago, “the—the helping hand, thing.” 

Eddie was painfully aware he was still clutching Richie’s wrist as he rambled. His hummingbird pulse practically vibrating against the skin of Eddie’s fingers. 

“But I...I appreciated it. I wanted you to know that.” 

Richie merely nodded, eyes as wide as Ben’s after a doobie, which had Eddie on edge, convinced he’d surely protest his handjob skills being only ‘appreciated’ and not ‘mind-blowing’ or ‘life-changing’ or something.

(Especially because they were.) 

“Y-Yeah, it uh...it probably wasn’t my best idea huh?”

_Fuck, take that cock!_

Eddie’s fingers tightened around his wrist. 

"Terrible."

Richie nodded.

“The worst,” he agreed. 

They stared at each other, barely breathing, the air practically sparking between them. 

_Yes, yes, yes!_

“...wanna do it again?” 

Eddie almost swallowed his own tongue as he gasped out, “Fuck, yes. Please.” 

An unreadable expression crossed Richie's face. 

“A 'please' two nights in a row? I'm speechless, Kaspbrak.” 

“Well, first time for everything.” 

Richie raked his eyes up Eddie’s body in a way that made him shiver, catching on the very visible bulge in his suit pants that Eddie did nothing to hide.

“Yeah. Clearly.” 

They both seemed to move simultaneously, Eddie tugging him closer, their hands pawing at his pants, Richie beating him to the punch, deft fingers undoing his button and sliding down his zipper in a movement so fluid, it had Eddie’s head spinning. 

_Yeah baby, take it, take that dic—_

“Wait,” Eddie’s hand fell down onto Richie’s before he blindly reached out for the remote, turning off the TV and plunging them into near-silence with nothing but their rasping breaths. 

“The porn industry is notoriously awful to women,” he explained, about to quote statistics from that one Netflix documentary he watched when Richie’s fingers brushed up against his boxers. 

“Shit, fuck,” he hissed, marvelling at how keyed-up he already was, his brain providing him wonderful flashbacks to how great this felt last time.

Richie hovered about him, his eyes, even darker than usual, looking somehow even wider too.

“Tell me....tell me what you want, Eds.” 

A million ideas flooded his brain, each more overwhelming than the next. 

“I _—fuck_ just—just touch me, Rich.” 

Richie’s eyebrow gave a quirk before his hand slipped down the waistband, wasting no time in gripping Eddie’s hot, half-hard cock, tight. 

“Shit!” Eddie groaned as he slid a little down the couch, his toes curling in his Gucci loafers that Richie loved to make fun of. 

Before he knew it, he was being wrenched even further down by Richie’s other hand clasping his hip and tugging his entire body until he was mostly lying on the couch, his head thumping back onto the armrest as Richie sank to the floor, never once missing a beat of his teasing tugs. 

“Fuck, sorry it’s dry, the lube is _..._ I don’t know where, but—”

He cut himself off with a wince.

“But?” Eddie struggled to ask, frustrated.

Richie slowly raised his other hand to his mouth, licking a deft strip up his palm before holding it out questioningly.

Eddie’s stomach swooped. 

_Gross. That’s gross. Why aren’t you grossed ou—_

Eddie just about managed a nod.

“You sure?” Richie asked, sounding awestruck. 

“I’m sure,” Eddie croaked, his eyes rolling back in his skull as Richie tightened his grip, “just don’t stop.” 

Needing no more assurance, Richie tugged Eddie’s boxers down further, swapping hands and tapping his hip.

“Up.” 

Eddie didn’t need to be told twice.

He lifted his ass slightly up off the couch and helped pull his boxers and pants down to his thighs, barely having time to feel self-conscious before Richie doubled his efforts, squeezing and tugging his cock in a rapid rhythm, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in concentration.

Eddie’s eyes glued to those flushed lips, his dick twitching. 

“Fuck _—your mouth.”_

They both stilled, Eddie in shock as he _most definitely did not_ mean to groan that out loud.

Those dark, expressive eyes lifted to meet his, looking more enigmatic than Eddie could ever remember them being. 

“Do you...want my mouth, Eddie?” 

_Fuck._

Eddie forgot how to speak. Could not, in that moment, summon a single syllable if his life depended on it.

But he sure could nod.

And did. 

More than once. 

Richie's teeth gnawed on his bottom lip once, twice, before he gave his own nod, leaning forward and in another mind-meltingly fluid movement, began enthusiastically lapping at the head of Eddie’s cock. 

“Holy shit!” 

Eddie bit down on his knuckles as Richie took him down further with an ease that had his stomach clenching.

_Fuck, of course Trashmouth doesn’t have a gag reflex._

Eddie forced his eyes open, watching, utterly transfixed at the top of Richie's head bobbing up and down on his cock, swallowing around the beads of precum, working his throat to take the rest of Eddie, the sound of slurping obscene in the hottest way that he would have never thought he’d be into. 

Eddie felt himself hit the back of Richie's throat and almost came on the spot. 

"Fuck, R-Richie," he moaned, one hand reaching out and gripping Richie's shoulder and the other, slipping into his hair, needing to hang onto something. 

Richie let out a loud groan at that, sending vibrations through Eddie that had him shivering, eyes rolling back into his head, his hips starting to make tiny jerks as he forced himself not to fuck his friend's face. 

Richie's free hand squeezed Eddie's hip, tracing little, maddening circles on the strip of exposed skin where his shirt had ridden up as he deep-throated him, the tip of his nose practically buried in Eddie's pubic hair. 

Suddenly, Eddie ached for Richie to look up at him. To catch his eye in the most private moment they had shared to date. To look into that gaze he trusted so much. But Richie seemed wholly focussed on the task at hand. His stomach clenched, his balls tightening as Richie gave them an almost playful squeeze while his tongue swirled the head of his cock. 

Eddie saw stars. 

"F-Fuck, Rich, I—I'm gonna come, ya gotta, ya gotta—" he tapped rapidly on the top of Richie's head, but in response, Richie merely sucked harder, clamping his own hand down atop of Eddie's buried in his hair, making them push his head down further. 

_Oh my god._

"Fuck, oh my god," Eddie cried out as he came, longer and harder and faster than even last night. 

Richie swallowed it all down, the little noises of his throat flexing setting Eddie's nerve endings on fire. 

He had barely taken a breath the entire time. 

Eddie's brain was broken. 

"Holy shit," he gasped as Richie sucked him dry, finally pulling off to trace his tongue up a vein, his touch now feather light, his hand resting gently against Eddie's quivering thigh. 

"You good?" 

God, his voice was... _rough._

And his lips...were rosy red and glistening. 

A molten spark shot through Eddie's entire body. 

_I did that to him. Fuck._

Never, not in a million years did Eddie ever dream he could make Trashmouth's mouth look like _that_. _Sound_ like that. 

_Fuck. Maybe I've entered the Twilight Zone._

Swallowing down his sudden, borderline hysterical urge to laugh, Eddie's eyes finally met Richie's as he practically melted languidly into the couch and Richie kneeled next to it. 

"I'm fucking fantastic," he sighed, not caring how blissfully fucked-out he sounded as he tried to force his brain back online to ask a very important question. "Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?" 

_'My mouth may be trash, Eds. But that doesn’t mean it’s not talented.'_

That's what he had said.

_And fuck. He was right._

Richie’s gaze darted away, merely gave him a half-shrug and went to stand up. 

Eddie let himself stare slowly up at all 6’1” of him, his eyes catching on the very substantial bulge in his jeans. 

He bit his lip. 

_Fuck, I wanna touch him._

Before he could voice this desire however, Richie had turned on his heel, making his way towards the bathroom. 

Guilt rose in the pit of Eddie's stomach. 

"Wait, Rich—”

"Don't worry about it, Eds. I told you. Not about me," he called over his shoulder, without a backwards glance, as if reading his mind, "just give me a sec and I'll be right out to watch the Lithgow one. I'll bring you a flannel." 

Eddie's stomach twisted into knots as he watched him go, feeling bereft, a weird ache in his chest. 

"Oh, okay," he called back, his brain still a little foggy as he added quieter, "thanks." 

He winced. He meant for the flannel, but knew what it sounded like.

_Is it good or bad to thank your best friend after they suck your brains out through your dick?_

That was the question Eddie pondered as he let his head fall back onto the couch arm rest, his eyes slipping closed as he struggled with sudden fatigue from the food, alcohol and orgasm, they truly a winning, if tiring, combination. 

_Maybe I could return the favour?_ He thought wildly as he heard the very distant sound of Richie's shower turning on. 

_He's probably jerking off in there_ , his thoughts turned giddy, letting himself imagine what that looked like, a mirage of strong, wide shoulders under a shower head flashing across his mind as he rearranged himself and zipped back up his pants. 

More guilt threatened to swirl around his insides, but he found himself being pulled under by sleep before it could fester.

Maybe a five minute nap while Richie showered wouldn't hurt…

As he drifted off, he could have sworn he heard the voice of Rod Sterling saying - “ _You unlock this door with the key of imagination…”_

* * *

They're dumbasses.

[More Reddie stuff here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortexikid/works?fandom_id=134900). [(Including another shorter, finished Friends-With-Benefits fic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23483587)

The world is very scary right now. Hope everyone is safe and well. ♥️


	4. Ornery and Horny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So sorry for the delay. 2020 was...well, 2020, and I got distracted with other Reddie fics. But, I’m back and hope this was worth the wait. Hope everyone is safe and well. Enjoy awkward handjobs/mutual masturbation from repressed, love-sick idiots!

He didn't slam the door, but it was a near thing.

He did stumble back against it though, his shaky legs almost giving way under his weight as he fought the urge to slide down to the floor.

_You were supposed to talk to him, jerkwad, not blow him._

_Fuck._

With quivering hands, he reached behind himself to lock the door, practically throwing his glasses onto the sink, before stumbling Bambi-style to the shower, avoiding his own eye in the mirror and turning the nozzle, the water springing to life and splashing him.

Richie jumped, the shock of the cold droplets jarring him out of his near-hysteria.

He was hard.

Ridiculously hard and straining against his jeans.

Ridiculously hard, straining against his jeans and _aching_ to be touched.

_“Richie, wait—”_

Eddie’s voice, how he had sounded, all fucked out and languid, rang in his ears as he began wrenching at his clothes, pulling off his Hawaiian shirt and undershirt and fumbling with his zipper, trying to quickly but gently pull it down over the boner he told himself he wouldn’t get, but obviously fucking did because—

He just sucked off the guy he had been dreaming about since he was twelve fucking years old. Eddie Kaspbrak’s dick had been in his mouth. Eddie Kaspbrak had come down his throat and Richie had swallowed it all like a parched man in the dead of Summer.

He was surprised he managed to not come in his pants, completely untouched at that thought alone, to be fair.

_“Richie, wait—”_

What if he had waited? What would have happened then? What would Eddie have done?

Questions upon questions swirled around his hyperactive brain, haunting him, taunting him with possibilities as he kicked off his shoes, wrenching his pants, boxers and socks off and tripping over his feet in his haste to get into the shower.

This wouldn’t take long.

Stepping under the showerhead, he bit down hard on his bottom lip to stop the groan that clawed its way up his throat as he finally got a hand on himself, face tilting forward and smacking against the wet tiles.

He fumbled for the lotion with his free hand, squirting a generous amount into his palm. All while he fought with himself not to think about Eddie.

How hot Eddie had looked all disheveled and pliant under Richie’s hands. How hard his fat, heavy cock was in Richie’s fist, leaking already, flushed an angry red as Richie leaned forward and took him all down with a semi-practiced ease that he was pleased to learn he hadn’t entirely lost in the two-plus years since he had done it.

How soft the skin of Eddie’s hip felt under his fingertips as he gently drew circles to try and relax him, despite being a bundle of nerves with frayed edges himself. How that had somehow worked, the thrum of tension that seemed to line Eddie’s body permanently, finally easing, being replaced by a coiled pleasure instead, his hand slipping into Richie’s hair and gripping just on the right side of painful.

Richie choked on a groan as he stroked himself, faster and tighter, twisting his wrist just the way he liked it. As with most times where his friend cropped up in these moments, they were accompanied by Richie’s ol' buddies, ol' pals - guilt and shame.

He wished he knew what Eddie's face had looked like when he came. But both times, Richie had been careful not to look.

Ever since he was a kid, Richie had always been careful not to look at Eddie too much. Not too long, in no one place, and especially not when he felt like all his pent-up romantic and sexual feelings would seep out through his eyes like blood from some pissed off Catholic statue in an ‘80s B-movie.

So, no. He had kept his eyes firmly shut, focusing on the task at hand.

And mouth.

 _No, no._ He wouldn’t think about it. He would not think about the weight of Eddie’s dick in his mouth, how he had groaned in pleasure as it hit the back of his throat. How it felt to have Eddie grip his hair tightly as his hips jerked, he clearly trying to stop himself from fucking Richie’s face.

_God, I want him to fuck my face._

“Oh shit,” Richie gasped as the image of Eddie’s hips snapping roughly, his hand wound tightly in Richie’s hair as he shoved his face down into his crotch, flooded his brain, his orgasm rocking from the depths of his gut, come spurting and coating his fingers and shower wall as he shook from the force of it.

With a grimace, he grabbed a loofa and wiped away the remnants from the tiles, trying to catch his breath and steadfastly ignoring the pool of shame rising from his gut.

“Get it together, Tozier, Jesus,” he grumbled to himself as he did a cursory dabbing of his body, tilting his head back against the showerhead and letting the water cascade down his neck and back.

With a sigh, he eventually turned the shower off and stepped out, blinking into the steam. He wrenched his glasses up (from where they sat near the bar of pretentious eucalyptus soap that Eddie had insisted he buy at the farmer’s market a few weeks ago) and shoved them on his face, careful to avoid his reflection in the mirror, as fogged up as it was.

With shaky hands, he snatched up his toothbrush and toothpaste, scrubbing his teeth and tongue vigorously, trying to wash away the taste of Eddie still lingering in his mouth. It was when he was wrapping the towel that had been hanging on the back of the door around his waist, that he realised he didn’t have any clean clothes to change into.

Resigning himself to his fate, he quickly shucked on his dirty clothes and forced himself to exit the bathroom with his head held high, as if he wasn’t inwardly crumbling under the weight of his own guilt, shame, and god help him, yearning.

“Alright, Eds, you better not have started the Lith—”

Richie stopped dead in his tracks, words lodging in his throat at the sight of Eddie Kaspbrak, sprawled out on his couch, still wearing his fancy work shoes, his shirt rucked up to his naval, his pants still partially undone, sleeping soundly, an arm still thrown over his head.

“Shit,” Richie whispered to himself as the familiar surge of warmth, ridiculous and fond, spread throughout his body just like pretty much any time he looked at his best friend.

Forcing his feet to unglue from the floor, he gently tip-toed across the room, glad he hadn't bothered putting back on his shoes and snatched up the blanket from off his armchair. Holding his breath, he leaned down and gently draped it over Eddie’s sleeping form, not daring to try to remove his dumb loafers lest he shatter the peace that had fallen over the room.

Richie allowed himself then, to glance at Eddie’s face for just a second, nothing too long or lingering, (he refused to be an Edward Cullen about it) and smiled just a little at the scrunch of his best friend’s nose, as if even while dreaming, he was unimpressed by something.

 _Cute, cute, cute!_ Richie’s thirteen-year-old-self echoed in his head as he forced himself away, shuffling over to the abandoned armchair and sinking down into it, letting his gaze travel back to the TV, seeing that John Lithgow was indeed gracing the screen.

Shaking his head, he let it fall back into the cushions, resigning himself to another sleepless night and did his best to pay attention to yet another flight from hell and not on the love of his life currently sleeping off the orgasm Richie just gave him.

* * *

  
It was way too bright.

Had he left his drapes open?

Somehow left the lights on?

Wait...where was his pillow? His sheets. His—

_You came down Richie’s throat last night._

Eddie shot up, eyes snapping open as a barrage of images flooded his foggy brain.

Richie sinking to the floor, licking a wet strip of saliva up his palm that should have grossed Eddie out, but somehow turned him unbelievably on, before gripping him tight and swallowing him down with a skill and enthusiasm that Eddie had never experienced.

His entire body shook, quivering at the memory as he glanced around, surprised to find himself still lying on Richie’s shockingly-comfortable couch, except he now had the gaudy Star Wars blanket that always hung on the back of the armchair, draped over him. His eyes, as if compelled by magnets, fell on Richie, surprised to find him sleeping upright in his armchair, his head tilted back, glasses askew, mouth hung open.

His treacherous stomach swooped at the sight, gaze lingering on those lips that not too long ago had been wrapped around his—

Eddie was hard.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself as he took in his predicament, his dick twitching in his still-slightly-undone pants.

_Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz._

Eddie jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Eyes darting anxiously over to Richie, he relaxed slightly as he saw his friend still conked out, a furrow between his eyebrows as if he were having a particularly unpleasant dream. Slowly, Eddie bypassed his aching hard on, slipping his hand into his pocket and retrieving his phone, squinting in the low-light of the early morning.

Rick Lebedev - 8:03am   
**_Was great seeing you, Eddie. Can’t wait for the grand tour ;)_ **

Something tugged in his gut as he read those words, particularly the very-00s winky face at the end. With fumbling, clumsy thumbs, he hastily wrote a reply, trying not to overthink it.

Me - 8:05am   
**_Yeah, good to see you too. Sure thing. See you then :)_ **

The smiley face was added very last second. Eddie Kaspbrak wasn’t a man to use emojis, let alone out-dated emoticons, much to the chagrin of the Loser groupchat, but he felt compelled to offer Rick something, if not entirely brave enough for a wink.

_God, this is so dumb._

“You know, I’m pretty sure you can’t telekinetically break your phone, no matter how hard you glare at it, Carrie.”

Eddie startled, his eyes snapping up to meet Richie, who was sleepily blinking at him from across the room.

Something warm spread throughout his chest at the sight.

“‘Times’t?” Richie mumbled, stifling a yawn and stretching so wide his shirt rucked up a little, exposing a sliver of skin.

“Eight,” Eddie replied quietly, trying not to stare, suddenly hyper aware of his morning wood that wasn’t quite covered by the Han Solo throw blanket.

He stared down at Harrison Ford’s face where it partially covered his crotch, his stomach churning.

“God, eight?!” Richie groaned to the ceiling, shifting his weight in the armchair, “Why the fuck are we awake in the middle of the night on a Sunday?”

“Because you gave me a blowjob last night and I woke up hard.”

Eddie slammed his mouth shut so abruptly that the clicking of his teeth crashing together was the only audible thing throughout the room. His heart hammered in his chest, blood rushing in his ears as Richie slowly tilted his head to lock eyes with him, surprise evident in them.

Something flickered over his face before his all-too-familiar smug smirk made an appearance.

“Aw, Eds. So ornery this morning.”

“Not ornery,” he grumbled, sounding exactly that as he shuffled a little on the couch, almost hissing as the back of his hand brushed against his dick.

Richie’s eyes darkened, his stare noticeably focussing south of Eddie’s belt.

“Horny then.”

Eddie blinked, silently conceding his point.

“Want me to do something about it?”

Eddie’s dick gave another extremely-interested twitch at that.

“Someone’s sure of himself,” he growled back instead of begging for a repeat performance, like he desperately wanted to.

Richie sat up in the chair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, thighs spread ridiculously wide, his glasses still infuriatingly skewed, his hair wild.

Eddie wanted to sit in that lap, push those glasses into that ridiculous hair and rake his fingers through it.

“Gotta say Eds, you’re giving me a lot of mixed signals here,” Richie grinned with a quirk of his eyebrow, spitting Eddie from his little daydream. “Which is it? Are you ornery or horny?”

A rush of air escaped Eddie then, his hands gripping the blanket for dear life as he kicked off his shoes and rearranged his legs on the couch.

“Both...all the fucking time. I’m both.”

Richie blinked as if surprised by that admission.

“Okay. Well, not sure I can directly help with the first thing,” he began, standing up, wincing only slightly at the audible crack of his back before he shuffled across the floor, “but the second thing…”

He dropped down onto the couch, a mere inch from where Eddie had just had his feet.

“How do you want it, Eduardo?”

Eddie’s hammering heart shot into his throat.

“I—”

_Anything. Everything._

“I want to touch you.”

Richie reared back a little as if physically slapped by the words.

“I just mean,” Eddie hurriedly continued, anxiety pumping through his veins, “I was just thinking that, you’re great, really great for...helping me out, Rich. But I don’t feel right about not returning the favour. Leaving you…” he racked his brain for a better phrase than ‘blue-balled’, before settling with a wince on - “hanging. I thought...I thought a friends-with-benefits thing should be more...reciprocal, is all.”

Richie seemed to have frozen, barely breathing by the look of it.

“...Richie?” Eddie coaxed, terror gripping his heart as he worried he had gone too far, “It’s only...only if it’s okay with you, though. I just don’t wanna take advantage of—”

“Okay.”

Eddie swallowed down the rest of his sentence.

“Okay?”

Richie finally met his eye, a myriad of different emotions passing over his face that Eddie failed to decipher.

“Okay, Eds. You can...return the favour.”

They stared at one another, hair mussed, yesterday’s clothes rumpled in the soft morning light, Eddie’s heart doing the rumba in his chest while still, inexplicably, his dick remained hard, trapped in his stupid suit pants.

He could feel Richie’s eyes on him as he shifted, ever so slightly closer to him, fingers dipping underneath the blanket to ease down his zipper a little. Stifling a groan, he kept his eyes firmly in his own lap, not able to handle the laser-gaze Richie was shooting his way.

Suddenly, a blur of motion caught his attention.

Richie was standing up and walking away.

Panic surged in Eddie’s veins.

“Richie, what—”

“Keep doin’ you, Eds. I-I’ll just be a sec,” he called over his shoulder, his breath a little uneven.

With a frown, Eddie watched him walk down the corridor towards his bedroom, eyes glued to the broad line of his shoulders, ridiculously framed in that ugly Hawaiian shirt he had worn last night.

Heat pooled in his abdomen as his fingers brushed his dick through his boxers, a shiver flowing up his spine. He’d just managed to get his pants back down around his thighs and was pulling his cock out to give it a quick, dry jerk to relieve the pressure when footsteps alerted him of Richie’s return.

Glancing up, he saw his best friend halt in his tracks, glued to the spot, a familiar bottle of lube secure in his left hand. Richie swallowed, eyes firmly on Eddie’s, not wavering even a little south. Eddie didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended at that.

“Scooch up,” Richie muttered lowly, voice a little hoarse as he surreptitiously rearranged himself in his jeans and made his way back across the room.

Eddie swooped his legs down off the couch and planted his feet on the floor, now cringing as he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, his erection pressing firmly against his stomach when he leaned forward a little. He felt rather than saw Richie take a seat beside him, their thighs not quite touching, but still close enough that he could feel the heat wafting from him. He listened as Richie unbuttoned his jeans and zipped down his fly, a little gasp escaping him.

At that, Eddie allowed himself to finally look, just a slight tilt of his head, molten heat spreading through him as he realised that Richie was going commando as he finally laid eyes on that infamous dick of his, unencumbered by boxers.

Richie was...huge. Thick and long even when only half-hard, skin flushed an angry red that had Eddie’s throat going dry, his eyes hungrily tracing a vein from root to tip as his cheeks set alight.

“Eddie?”

Richie’s voice held no trace of the smugness that Eddie had expected after enduring all those years of bragging and insistence on ‘dick measuring contests’. Instead it sounded quiet, unsure, almost as if awaiting…disapproval? Rejection?

“Holy fuck,” the words punched out of Eddie’s chest almost angrily, “ _of course_ you weren’t lying about being hung like a fuckin’ horse, you asshole.”

A laugh, almost choked and certainly higher pitched than usual, escaped Richie’s throat at that.

“What can I say, Eds?” He shrugged, “I tried to tell you guys.”

Eddie rolled his eyes if only to unglue them from the very alluring sight of thick, spread thighs, shifting a little on the couch, hyper aware that he was butt-ass naked with his pants around his ankles beside his best friend, dick out and already leaking precum.

Not how his Sunday mornings usually start.

A shaky laugh erupted from him at that, causing Richie’s eyebrows to dart up his forehead before he too began to chuckle a little at the absurdity.

“This what frat dudes do, Rich?”

Richie snorted, flicking open the cap of the lube and squirting a healthy pour into his hand.

“Not exactly like this,” he grinned wryly, fingers shaking a little as they held out the bottle for Eddie to take.

Eddie stared at it, then Richie, then back again.

“I thought you were gonna—”

“I will,” Richie cut across him reassuringly, “but first, I think you should touch yourself. Get into the rhythm of it. It’ll...it’ll help you when you wanna touch...someone else.”

Richie’s breath was coming out weird, sounding simultaneously like he had just run a marathon yet also seemed practiced, careful, like it did during live interviews.

Eddie merely shrugged, figuring it was just the overall weirdness of the situation and instead forced himself to focus, taking the lube from him and squirting some into his right palm.

“Yeah. Good. Just..just like you’d do alone,” Richie instructed, his voice quiet but firm.

He didn’t dare look back to Richie as he reached down and stroked himself, smearing the lube from the base of his cock up to the head, hissing a little as he swiped his thumb over the slit, spreading the precum in circles.

In his peripheral vision, Eddie saw Richie’s hand also begin to move and felt a bolt of arousal shoot through him, wanting, aching to look as his ridiculously large hand fisted his ridiculously large dick, his thighs quivering ever so slightly, still trapped in his jeans.

Shaking his head, Eddie stuck to the task at hand (heh), working himself over just like he had done during countless, sleepless, horny nights before, chasing that elusive high that never seemed to quite be caught. At least not until that first night when he fucked into Richie’s hand and came harder than he had in nearly forty two years of life.

“F-Fuck.”

Eddie’s head whipped around at Richie's gasp, their eyes locking.

They were staring at each other. As they jerked off. That was a thing that was happening at 8am on a Sunday morning.

Eddie tried to hold his gaze, he really did. But, almost as if compelled by magnets, his eyes were wrenched down to Richie’s lap, his throat tightening at the sight of his dick pumping in and out of his clenched grip.

“Fuck, Rich,” he let out a harried breath, voice broken, “can...can I touch you now?”

A noise ripped from Richie's throat at that, high pitched and thin.

“Y-Yeah,” he stuttered, nodding his head vigorously, “sure, Eds. Have at it.”

Eddie had a feeling Richie had meant that to sound more cavalier than it did, but didn’t comment on it, instead reaching out, heart fit to burst out of his chest as he laid his palm over Richie’s, following his movements, up and down, up and down.

After a beat, Richie slid his hand out from under Eddie’s so that his skin was flush against his hot, hard cock. Another gasp escaped Richie’s chest as Eddie, emboldened, wrapped his hand tight around him and copied his movements from before, sliding it up and down,again and again, brushing his thumb along the vein that had caught his eye.

“Y-Yeah, yeah. Just like that, Eds,” Richie encouraged gently, far quieter than Eddie would have ever thought.

“Little tighter. Yeah...yeah that’s...that’s perfect,” he sighed, head thumping back against the couch for a second, his breath speeding up.

A thrill shot through Eddie as he watched Richie slowly fall apart under his touch, his entire body tight as a bow string, a deep blush spreading from his neck, right up to the tips of his ears. But he didn’t dare look too long.

_This is so fucking hot._

A groan ripped from Eddie’s throat as Richie’s right hand came to fall down atop his, following his lead, while his left reached out and wrapped around Eddie’s leaking cock, copying their rhythm, building up speed.

“Shit, fuck,” Eddie gasped as they both pumped each other, his orgasm rising from the pit of his stomach, his lower spine tingling as Richie tightened his grip, twisting his wrist that had Eddie suddenly coming with a shout of surprise, spilling over Richie’s hand, coating his fingers.

“Fuck, Richie,” he cried out, his own hand reflexively clenching on Richie’s cock which had him gasping, speeding him up, draping his giant hand over his and taking the reins every so slightly.

“Shit, Eds, I...just like that, yeah, just like—ah, fuck!”

Richie came in hot, thick spurts, over their joined hands. Eddie should have been disgusted but instead, his spent dick gave a pathetic twitch, unbelievably turned on by the sight. Seconds ticked by as the pair tried to catch their breaths.

“Breakfast?”

Eddie blinked his eyes open, only then realising that they had fallen shut, his brain pleasantly liquified. Slowly, he met Richie’s gaze, who was looking back a little sheepishly.

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

With that, they hastily retracted their hands, wincing just slightly at the mess before beginning to clean up. They worked quickly and quietly, Eddie making his way to the spare room, thankful for the half-bath to tidy himself up and the sweatpants and T-shirt in the top drawer of the dresser for him to change into. Once presentable, he made his way back out, seeing Richie had already headed into the kitchen and started preparing pancakes just like it was any other normal Sunday morning. It gave Eddie slight pause, but he determinedly shoved it out of his brain, his hunger overriding any residual panic over what had just happened, for the time being at least.

He could freak out all he liked later.

For now, he set out getting O.J. from the fridge and setting two places at the kitchen island, side by side, like they always sat. It was when he was straightening up the knives and forks, that he was startled by a familiar sound.

_Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzz._

Eddie jumped, staring down at his phone.

Rick Lebedev - 8:48am 

**_It’s a date ;)_ **

He froze, barely having a second to take the words in before he heard Richie ask, quiet and even:

“Who’s Rick?”

Slowly, he looked up, focussing on a point over Richie’s shoulder, unable to quite meet his eye.

“He’s uh, an old acquaintance from the New York office. He paid me a visit yesterday.”

From his periphery, he saw Richie nod, a little jerk of his head.

“And he...asked you out on a date?”

Richie’s voice was oddly emotionless. Huh. Eddie had been expecting some teasing, at least. A little light ribbing of his ‘baby gay’ status. Not this...whatever it was.

He bit his bottom lip, letting his mind wander back to the brief conversation in his office where Rick had outlined that he’d be returning to L.A. for a three-day conference next month and would very much appreciate Eddie showing him around town.

“Uh...maybe? I—I’m not really sure, to be honest.”

Which was the truth. He wasn’t.

Rick was a flirt, sure. Always had been. With everyone, as far as Eddie could tell. It seemed like an ingrained part of his personality. So, his desire to meet up very well could have been a platonic, old-acquaintances-catching-up-in-a-new-city kinda thing. Except, when Eddie explained what had gone down during the office visit, Richie snorted.

“Oh yeah, that dude wants to bone you.”

“Richie!”

“What? I’m just stating facts, Eds,” Richie threw up his hands, a weird, tight-lipped grin on his face, “the guy’s hardly subtle. He literally called it a date and added a godforsaken winky face two seconds ago. What more do you want, a dick pic?”

Eddie stared at him, taking in his sudden bout of almost manic energy, how his eyes bounced around the room, focussing on anything but him.

“Guess I know now why you wanted to return the favour,” Richie continued, his tone light, his fingers drumming on his counter as he typed something into his own phone, “it’ll be good practice for Rick the Risk Analyst.”

Eddie froze.

“What? No Richie, that’s not why—”

"Hey man, I get it," Richie held up his hands, "gotta take the gay train for a test ride. Least now you're not a handjob virgin. You can show this Rick guy you've got some skills."

Something panged in Eddie's chest at those words. They sounded...wrong. Off. Ill-fitting from Richie’s mouth and piercing to Eddie's ears.

"Richie...I'm not dating this guy."

It was not what he had wanted to say. Not by a long shot. But it was all he could manage. Richie tilted his head, dropping his phone on the counter and crossing the room to open the fridge, peering into it, his reply muffled.

"Not yet. Not with that attitude."

Eddie frowned at the back of his head.

"You think I should date him?"

The fridge door slowly closed, but Richie didn't turn around.

"Doesn't matter what I think. It's about what you think. What you want. And didn't you say you weren't into random hookups? Didn't like Internet dating? Well, here's your opening, man."

Richie turned, hands empty, eyes now focussed back on the frying pain, his voice low but firm.

"Then bam, before ya know it, you won't need my helpin' hand anymore.

Dread dropped like a stone in Eddie's gut as he forced out:

"Yeah, yeah maybe you're right."

A beat of silence followed those words.

Two.

Thr—

"Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd hear you say."

Eddie watched as Richie carefully plated the pancakes, a soft golden brown with a dollop of butter and maple syrup on the side, just how Eddie liked them, before sliding them across the island towards him.

"God these smell amazing," Eddie smiled, the compliment coming easier than usual in his post-orgasm haze, "thanks, Rich. You're the best."

Richie merely gave a half shrug, his left shoulder barely more than twitching as he turned everything off and stood, nursing his plate, leaning back against the counter. Eddie frowned a little, wondering why he wasn't taking his usual spot beside him, but before he could ask, Richie shoved a disgustingly-large forkful of pancake into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously.

Heat swirled in Eddie's stomach as the image of what that same mouth had done to him the night before, sprang to mind. It shouldn't have been arousing, watching Richie inhale his food, but it was. But maybe only _because_ it was Richie.

Eddie could finally admit it, now. That he was attracted to his best friend. Had found him instantly attractive after first clapping eyes on him back in The Jade over a year ago. That tall, lanky boy he once knew, had grown up to be a tall, broad-shouldered man with a jawline that could cut glass and hands that Eddie daydreamed about wrapping around his cock while at work yesterday. And now, again, as he sat in his kitchen eating breakfast.

The attraction wasn't the problem, though. He had learned to deal with that over the last while. Just like how he had ignored every hot guy lifting weights at the gym, or played dumb to Rick's flirtations back in New York.

No, attraction was one thing.

But this feeling that had been manifesting in his chest for over a year now? The warmth, the fondness, safety and… _other thing_ that he couldn't quite put a name to, but knew was far from a new sensation whenever he allowed himself to look at Richie for too long?

That was a whole other problem entirely.

"You can give me pointers, right?"

The words fell from his lips without his brain's express permission. He and logic were clearly not on speaking terms, but his mouth hadn't gotten the memo.

Richie's eyebrow arched.

"'Oin'ers?" He asked around his mouthful of mush.

Eddie repressed a wince, not for the first time questioning his intense feelings (whatever their extent) towards the man in front of him.

"Yeah," he forced out, hating himself with each growing second, "like...give me feedback? On my...technique? So I can...get better."

He did wince at that.

Richie gave a little cough before swallowing.

Eddie's eyes zeroed in on his Adam's apple, his thoughts turning dangerous again.

"What, you want an evaluation on your handjob, Eds?"

Eddie gave the most nonchalant shrug he could manage. Which wasn't saying a lot.

"Gotta learn somehow."

Richie blinked.

“Alright. It was good. A little too loose and slow once or twice, but overall, a good time. I give it a solid 3.3 stars outta 5.”

A million different emotions swirled in Eddie’s gut at that review. The ire at the use of decimal points high on the list. But he settled on his ol’ reliable default where Richie was concerned - unimpressed.

“What?” Richie laughed, no doubt at the stink eye directed at him, “You asked, man. Thought you wanted to learn?”

“I do.”

"And what, I’ll be your gay tutor?"

"If you're okay with that?” Eddie’s gaze lowered to his plate, his self-hatred growing but not able to stop himself. “You're helping me out anyway. Just thought you wouldn't wanna pass up an opportunity to critique me."

(And judging by his 3.3 stars, it looked like he was right.)

But it was still complete bullshit. Eddie knew that even before the idea spewed from his lips. He knew that ‘gay tips’ weren’t what it was, not really, a ball of dread solidifying in his stomach like the tightest mass of rubber bands, just fit to snap at any second. But he couldn't let himself think about that. Hadn't let himself for the last two years, or thirty two years, depending how he looked at it.

Because really, he was lucky enough to get this much. Had never dared dream he would get even that.

"Sure, Eds,” Richie snapped him out of his reverie, “I can be your gay shaman."

Eddie’s eyes shot up.

"Gross, don't call it that."

Richie grinned.

"Gay witch doctor? Oh! Gay spirit guide!"

"Nope. Forget it. Never mind. I’ll—”

“Eddie.”

Something crossed Richie’s face, then. Something soft that Eddie had seen more than once over the last two years, but still had no name for.

“I said I would help you,” he gave a small, wry smile, “so, I’ll help you.”

The tightness in Eddie’s chest loosened.

“Just call me your Fairy Godmother,” Richie winked.

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Do you have any suggestions that aren’t racist or homophobic?”

Richie frowned, tapping his chin.

“Gay Yoda?”

Eddie sighed.

“Alright. Guess that makes me your gay padawan?”

A slow smirk spread across Richie’s face. Eddie instantly knew which Voice was gonna come out of his mouth before he even took a breath.

“Luke Skywalker, you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re still dumb.


End file.
